It's Wednesday--Time to Wet the Wick
I was going to title this post Friday, Time to Fuck but thought it sounded a little crass.
A good friend of ours was in town this week and stayed with us for a couple of nights. He’s the father of a six-month old girl, so we had lots to talk about. After all of the requisite bragging about our girls’ sparkling personalities, the conversation turned to the effect of a new baby on marriage; in particular, the effect on one’s sex life (I’ve mentioned before the challenges we faced in this department).
We learned our friends have a strategy for coping with the post-baby coital slump. They establish a minimum sex threshold by scheduling it once a week. Yep, if Friday comes around, regardless of how many times they’ve done it, how tired they are, or any other excuses, they just do it. This way, you never have more than a week go by without a bit of the old in and out.
At first we laughed, then I thought, wait a minute, this is brilliant. If you wait until you're in the mood for the old mattress mambo, it never happens. There have been times when I haven’t felt like bumping bellies but did it anyway because I thought I should. Every time, I’m glad I did it. It’s like diving into the ocean—you feel lazy and don’t want to bother getting your hair wet; the water is kind of cold and is a bit of a shock to the system at first; but once you’re in, you feel invigorated and refreshed.
So, Papa and I have decided to do the mommy-daddy dance every Wednesday, at the absolute minimum. We chose Wednesday because we’re less likely to have plans, I don’t have school, there’s nothing on TV (oh shit, I just remembered Lost is on Wednesday). No matter, we’re doing it anyway. If he’s working Wednesday, we move it up to Tuesday (by the way, it was my idea to move it forward, not back. I’m really on board with this plan).
I’ll let you know how it comes, I mean goes.
All’s well when ends meet.